A few weeks ago I took my wife and kids to a nearby forest to take some family photos. We each held a photo of us and little Mitch as a memorial to a fallen family member we each love and miss very much. Yet despite our sorrows, we remain grateful to still have each other.
This year my heart will still be heavy because I’ll miss how Mitch used to sit by me at family dinners and softly hold my hand at the table. I’ll miss how he used to snuggle up with me on the couch as we watched movies. I’ll miss giving him piggyback rides up the stairs because his muscles were too weak. I’ll miss his laugh and brilliant wit. I’ll miss his … everything. As much as grief weighs heavy on my heart, threatening to sink me, I have 4 other people whom I love with all of my heart and their presence in my life lifts me.
I love my wife. She is as kind as she is beautiful. She would sooner fall on the sword for those she loves than harm them in any way. Self-sacrificing, wise and loving, I find myself always taking notes and learning from her natural ways; ways, that any without thought on her part, that are far beyond me. Each day my sweet wife and friend, without saying a word, teaches me how to be.
I love Laura-Ashley. She is beautiful, smart and kind. I enjoy watching her explore new territory as she pursues the arts and sciences. She is learning to play the guitar, draw and write. Her trouble in life will be deciding what to do – because she can do anything. I hope she comes to feel (not just know) how proud I am of the young woman she is. Ethan, my oldest son, is a remarkable young man who is so passionate about so many things. I love to watch him ride his motorcycle and make jumps with his bare hands and the dirt. I love to watch him skate and play lacrosse. Mostly, I love to watch befriend everybody and reach out to those who don’t feel they fit in. A few weeks ago he got in trouble at the dinner table for teasing his younger brother, like brothers often do. He went to his room and then played the song, “I’m only human.” As we heard that music play in the distance we all fell out of our chairs laughing as Ethan came out of his room with a big smile. I am so proud of who he is today and even more excited to see what he becomes. The future is bright for him. Of course there’s Wyatt. He is a particular blessing to our family. Wyatt has a heart as big as his mind – and they both loom enormous. He is always thinking about others and has learned early in his life the true power of faith and prayer. He reminds me that often it is the least among us, the youngest and most inexperienced, who become the most powerful examples on earth. I know many adults who because they are educated think they are wise – they forget who they are and stop seeing the world through heaven’s eyes. They fumble in the most fundamental ways. Though Wyatt is young, he is a towering example of faith and goodness to our little family. When I think of my many blessings, Wyatt is chief among them.
This Thanksgiving my heart will be filled to overflowing with gratitude. My cup, though cracked and tattered with loss and sorrow, is running over. Though my hands tremble from grief and my heart still quakes because I am tired and weak – I know to whom I must look to find strength for tomorrow. For there are battles ahead and many more tears to shed … but if we stick together and fight on, we'll find victory on the morrow.
Thanksgiving and Christmas are two of my favorite holidays; I love them for all that they are and the greater meanings they point to. Like anything of deep importance, there is often a greater meaning to things – even pain and suffering. The trouble is we can get lost on either sides of the spectrum. On the one hand, we can so get wrapped up in the tinsel and superficial of the holidays that we miss the point of things. Or, we can find ourselves on the other side of the spectrum and become fanatical and shun the fun of the holidays. Neither are balanced nor are they wise, for the things of the heart are discerned like an art and seen only with heavens eyes.
In like manner, when I think of my sorrows, I will look past the paper and things I can see, and listen with my heart for the lessons of the soul Heaven tries to teach me. There is a greater meaning to everything – if only we'll open our other eyes. Then, and only then, will we truly see.
It was a cold January afternoon when a kind man walked up our steep driveway with a tattered cardboard box in his arms. Inside that box was a tender, shivering puppy for one sick little boy. Mitch was so excited to have a little furry friend to call his own.
I think on some level Mitch was beginning to feel increasingly lonely because all of his peers were moving far past him. It wasn't that they didn't care about him … to the contrary, his friends loved him. But as they were getting older and physically stronger, Mitch was growing increasingly weak. The world Mitch used to know was beginning to pass him by and he was beginning to feel more and more isolated. He didn't complain about this, but as his father, I knew what was happening. I sensed it as only a parent can.
About a week before my son passed away he lay on the floor in tears saying how much he wished he could do in real life what he was only able to do in video games. He had just played a skateboard game and wanted so much to do those tricks “for real.” My heart broke as I saw my little boy long to be like every other little boy. Life and hardship would take that away from him and that pains my heart.
I don’t know what drove my father-in-law to give little Mitch a puppy, but the timing of that gift was nothing short of miraculous. Two weeks later Mitch would go to the hospital, then be sent home to die. This little puppy was such a comfort to Mitch. I will share more about those tender mercies in future posts, and some are especially tender, but there is no doubt in my mind this little gift was an act of inspired kindness. Heaven’s hand was very much in this gift.
I posted a short video of that sweet exchange here: vimeo.com/58228257
At some point, as Mitch was getting to know his puppy, I turned my camera toward my father-in-law and captured this image. This good man, who bore the scars of age and experience on his face, stood quietly against the wall and seemed to find great joy in the happiness of my son. I love everything about this photo … not that it is a good photo (because it is not) … I love this image because it captured someone in the very act of goodness. This is what goodness looks like.
I admire the person who thinks less about heaping riches unto themselves and instead looks for ways to love and lift others. I am convinced the key to a rich life isn't found in what we keep, but instead what we give.
I think there’s a special place in heaven for this good man. When I grow up, I want to be just like this man. For he is good and he has a rich life.
As Thanksgiving nears, I can’t help but be overwhelmed with gratitude. Though I lost my son, a little person and friend most precious to me, I am grateful I had him in the first place. I am grateful for my family, true friends and all of you. I am grateful for goodness.
This was Mitchell’s last time at his grandmothers – the place, other than home, he loved to be above all others. I’m not sure if it was the chocolate cake from Costco she would get especially for him, or the small 4-wheelers he could ride into the woods, or if it was the escape from life as he knew it, maybe it was the unbridled love he received – but whatever it was, he wanted to be there.
As we stood at the door and said goodbye my mother reached behind Mitch, who is as shy as he is sweet, and kissed his cheek. I could tell Mitch felt so good inside. I think everybody deserves to feel good inside.
I captured this tender moment with my phone. As we left her place there was a certain heaviness in my heart. I didn’t know where my feelings were coming from – I just sensed something was happening. Something significant. As we drove away I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat. Had I known this was his last trip there, I would have begged to stay another day or two. My mother said after we left she just sat on the floor and wept. Perhaps her soul, not knowing the end was coming, was being prepared for this loss.
It was the last few days of November and the Christmas holidays were just around the corner. I could tell Mitch was excited to see what Santa would bring –but he was even more excited about the gifts he was going to give everyone else. Mitch always gave to others freely. I think deep inside he felt no matter how much he gave, he always got more in return.
Even when Mitch was home on hospice, he spent his hard-saved money on a collection of Warheads (very sour candy) and gave them away. I remember sitting with him on the edge of his bed as he separated the flavors. He softly pointed to the blue raspberry ones and said almost in a whisper, struggling to breathe, “These ones are rare. They’re my favorite.” He then grabbed my hand and put the precious 3 candies in my palm, then closed my fingers and pushed my hand back to me. I said to him, “Oh, no Mitchie, these are yours. You keep them because I know you love them.” As I reached to give them back he pushed my hand back to me with a gentle smile and said, “No, you keep them. And I want you to eat one right now.” My heart sank a little because I wanted him to have his favorite treats, but I realized in that moment that letting Mitch give was the gift he really wanted.
So, I opened one quickly and put it in my mouth. Mitch began to smile and giggle as I puckered and writhed over the intense sour candy that was destroying my taste buds. Mitch finally burst out in laughter as he saw me cry out “I can’t take it!” For Mitch, giving was a win to him. And seeing me almost gag over the super-sour candy was a second win that paid dividends of giggles and laughter.
I still have those other two candies in a special box that contains treasures from Mitch.
Mitch reminds me daily what it means to win. Sometimes life gives us double-wins when everything turns out as planned. Other times we do our best and appear to fail; but if we are honest and do our best we have already won, regardless of the outcome. What is winning, really? It is doing the right thing – no matter the cost. Mitch always did the right thing. And more often than not, he won twice.
With all his double-wins, my little boy lost his battle with life … yet he won his soul by the way he lived it. And, by the grace of God, while I stumble and fall a million times as I chase after my son, I hope to hold him once more. I hope to look into his innocent eyes and thank him for helping me understand to do good and be good is what it means to truly win.
When my wife and I learned we were expecting our first child I remember being excited at first, then shocked and terrified. In my mind and heart I thought “I’m just a boy myself … how can I possibly be qualified to raise a child?” I was sober and shaken. Having come from a large family, I always wanted children of my own – but I was in my early 20’s and wasn't sure I was mature enough to take on the most important job I will ever have in this life: to raise a child.
But that fear only lasted about 5 minutes. Maybe 15.
With each child in the delivery room I became more emotional because I knew that tiny baby swaddled in cloth, eyes barely open and breathing for the first time, would teach me about love and sacrifice and what it means to be a father and a child. By the time we had our youngest son, Wyatt, I wept in the delivery room because I knew what I was in for … and my heart was overflowing with love, gratitude and anticipation.
This Thanksgiving our kitchen table will have one less person seated there. Mitch always wanted to sit by me, and I always wanted to sit by him. He always reached over to hold my hand while we ate and that melted my heart. His absence will be profoundly felt. I know I will smile … and I know I will cry. But most of all, I will be grateful. I will thank my God for all that I once had, all that I still have, and all that I will yet have.
This image is so special to me because it is the second-to-last family portrait we have. The last was taken just before Mitch passed away; and that photo is even more sacred. Though both images tug tenderly at my broken heart, they remind me I have much to be thankful for. They remind me of life’s greatest treasure.
And one day, when I see my son again, my gratitude will be so great there won’t be room enough in the universe to contain it.